


Whore

by Ladycat



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: Episode Tag, Gen, Season/Series 06
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-03
Updated: 2011-06-03
Packaged: 2017-10-20 02:21:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,539
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/207751
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ladycat/pseuds/Ladycat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>6x18 Entropy - Spike thinks.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Whore

Pain.  Pain so bad it numbs you until nothing is left. She thinks she knows, thinks her pain is that bad.  Sometimes it is.

Most times it isn’t.

She was hurting.  Alone, and scared, and lost and what did I do wrong and why did I make you hurt and I’m sorry make it stop even though she  _knew_  it wasn’t.  Nothing to do with her, just like it never really had to do with me.  Least she had it for a little.  Not excusing what he did, but at least she had love.

I’ve never had love.

She tells me that she knows, now, that it’s real for me.  That she knows and she sees except it can’t ever be like that for her.  I’m evil and soulless and a thing, not human, not real.  Just a thing for her to use, to treat as her own private whore.

I know sex.  Sometimes it hurts and sometimes it’s sweet but most of the time it’s just  _sex_.  More than you are, more than you ever think you can be.  I’m good at it too, although she never once thought about that.  Know just how much to give, how much pain she can take before it’s too much.  Know how much she likes it even when she beats me for it.  I  _know_  sex.

She was hurting.  Lost and little and alone even though she’s older than me, even.  She wanted to make him hurt like she did, except she knew he already did.  Nothing she could do to make it better or worse, just different.  She wasn’t trying to hurt him, with me.  I wasn’t trying to hurt her, either.  Either her.

Gods, we’re a mess.

And how dare you.  Come to me, tell me that it’s over, and that I have to move on.  Good little whore, go find someone else.  Go show them hours of pleasurepain because I couldn’t dare ever show real pleasure, the kind I always wanted to.  She thinks she knows why, too, because it’s what I did with Dru. 

Sometimes, yeah, sometimes it was. . .  Dru was what Angelus made her.  But sometimes she was just Drusilla, too, sweet little girl-woman who knew things not even she understood.  Who liked to be loved almost as much as I liked to love.  Who had me to tea parties and wanted beautiful jewelry and gallant men to escort her to her fancy.  Who wanted to go back to when she was a little doll herself, and the world was safe and made sense again.

She thinks that I don’t get that, but I do.  I see her, I  _know_  her.  I’ve always known her.  All my women are the same, really.  They need me, sometimes desperately, but they never want me.  Just a whore.

And then there was this one.  With her Highness to tell me to move on and she was smelling like sick and little and so damned alone.  So lost in the pain she knew wasn’t hers, but it was, wasn’t it?  It had to be.  Because if it wasn’t hers then. . . then it hurt too much to even think of the answer.

She wanted it, too.  Not because of him—that wasn’t the issue, not really.  It wasn’t cheating, he let her go no matter how much he says he wants her back.  That wasn’t why she almost stopped, we both know that.  It’s because she saw it, saw the thing that no one else has seen.  Not even the ’bit and god I miss her.  Miss hearing her voice and her laugh. . .

Women rule my life.

She looked up at me with those big eyes, ever changing hair pushed back in something sweet and fetching and she smelled like life.  She smelled like my sweet one does and the way I wish my girl would smell again.  Give me that smell and I’ll whore myself to whomever she says.  Don’t care.  Just need that, that sweetness that goodness. . . that life.

She wanted it hard and hurting, make her body feel like her heart, her soul did.  I didn’t.  I’ve had hard and hurting.  Had till I could choke on it.  Don’t want pain anymore.  So I made it slower than she wanted, sweeter than she wanted, but it wasn’t love or romance or any of that nonsense.  She was imagining me with dark hair and a heartbeat, while I saw blonde and a wicked smile I haven’t seen since. . . since the Bronze.  1998.  Watching her with her pets, laughing about some school bit and didn’t they all look so good?  All of them, the ponce of a wanker too.  So young and innocent and happy.

Growing up isn’t supposed to hurt like this.  I remember that.  Don’t remember much, don’t want to remember much of anything, but I remember that.  It’s gotta hurt a little, yeah, but not this soul-searing agony.

It’s a laugh, though, listening to the righteous bitch and her righteous bastard.  So sure that they aren’t in the wrong, even when their lips are saying they know it.  The boy, telling her that he’s disgusted with her when he made her hurt so much that something as wicked as me looked good.  He wants to be disgusted, let it be with himself.  She didn’t do anything wrong.  She stayed strong and pure and I know she’d have gone back to him if he wanted it.  Really wanted it, not this not-just-yet crap.  Do or don’t or get out of the damn way.

And her.   _Her._   Bane of my bloody existence and doesn’t it always come back to some  _her?_   She was hurting.  Can’t you see that?  Don’t you remember the wood and the dust and the rubble and the hurt and the sweat and the blood and the warm body jumping on to me, lips pressing hard against mine?  Don’t you remember pain so bad that it made you crazy?  I remember it.  Why the hell do you think I was here anyway?

Think I planned this?  Set about to get over you with this sweet bit of innocence, that’s older than me, and fuck my problems away?  That’s your line, luv, not mine.  I’m the whore, remember?  Only the john gets to feel a little better before the pain sets back in.

God it hurts.  What she does to me, what they always do to me, it hurts.  All I want is for it to go away.  Numb it all away, stare at the walls, go mad.  Just stop hurting.  That’s why I did it, you bint.  Cause I was drunk and hurting and alone even with your scent all around me and your taste in my mouth.  How could I move on so fast?  Whores don’t ask questions, they just go to whomever buys them.

What I want to know is why they always call me soulless.  It’s a catch-phrase with all of them, even the little good witch who I’d never met until her head was full of stories I barely remembered living.  Unliving.

Soulless.  Know who that’s from, but that’s not the point, and they damned well know it.  No, I don’t have a goddamned soul.  No, I don’t want one—but not because of why they think.  They think it’s because I’m evil and I don’t want to give that up and when  _it_  comes out or stops working I’ll kill them all.  And I might.  Not because it’d be fun, because it wouldn’t be.

Not even fun for him, and I learned that one tonight, didn’t I?  Whispering it out like the coward I’ve always been, and I know the bitch thinks it was to hurt her.  Doesn’t she understand me yet?  Haven’t I made this point enough times?  I wasn’t doing it to hurt her.  I was doing it because if his precious  _Buffy_  had done it, than maybe it wasn’t so awful for his ex-fiancé.

Whores don’t get choices, remember?  We go to who pays us.

Watching him cut her into little pieces when all she’d done was try and deal with the mess he’d made.  Watching him call her all the things he’d called me and hating him for it more than I ever had.  She smelled like sick, again, like scared and little and please, I want mommy back.  And I hate that smell, I sodding  _hate_  it, and for that I’ll say the thing I swore I’d never really say.  Because it did hurt her, and I knew it would, and I hated myself even as I said it.

That’s the irony, isn’t it.  A soul is supposed to make me good, make me feel, make me real.

Whores can’t be real.  Because then we remember that it hurts to do what we do.  That it isn’t a job, and it isn’t just sex, even when we’re doing it.  It’s life and it’s pain and it’s real.  And it hurts so much I don’t know why I’m not crying like a baby.  Hurts so much that my skin should be red from tears and broken from the sobs.  It hurts.  It always hurts.

Little boys and little girls, playing in the sandbox.

And she was  _hurting._


End file.
